shed skin

'Poetry can save your life,' said Adrienne Rich. And last night working with the group of poets whom I tutor in Exeter for The Poetry School gave me much nourishment in hard times.

And my friend Simon, he of the beautiful words the other day, sent me this passage from John Burnside (a big favourite poet of mine):

Though each thing dies
into its own becoming,
the shed skin falling away,
still beautiful;

an empty form
but governed by the moon,
like bone,
or thaw.